


Hands

by notoriousjae



Series: Marshfield Drabbles [5]
Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 08:29:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5659567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notoriousjae/pseuds/notoriousjae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their hands might be better acquainted than they are. Part of a series of Marshfield prompts (ranging from cute to cuter) that turned into drabbles. (G for Jesus?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> A bunch of people have sent in Marshfield drabbles to my [Tumblr](http://begonefoulsoftdrink.tumblr.com), so I figured I might as well post them here. Just because.
> 
> **Prompt:** Hands

******Their hands might be better better acquainted than they are.**

They don’t always speak, but neither do their hands, and sometimes words aren’t necessary when contact can tell more tales than tongues.

**They’re disconnected, sometimes, like they’re unique and wonderful. Left and Right.**

Kate paints life with her fingertips in a way Max will never understand. She looks at a blank page and wills color into existence like she’s the big bang of art and it makes Max breathless. 

Max frames the world with curving clicks of precision and tilted edges of _understanding_ in a way Kate will never understand. Max’s fingers catch the world in snapshots of sincerity and it makes Kate full of breath and life.

**They mingle, sometimes, like quiet brushes of paint timidly skirting along canvas.**

Usually Kate tucks her books up to her chest like a piece of the holy spirit’s armor--like a breastplate against the world around her--blank canvas of sketches protected against her too-big heart. But when they walk, together, across campus, sometimes Kate’s hand will fall. Their fingers will barely brush as they walk, continuously coming to great each other across chasms of empty space, and it feels more protective--more reassuring--than the blank spaces of life she hasn’t filled against her chest.

**They curl, sometimes, like tangling lovers in sheets.**

Usually Max shoves her hands in her pockets, but when Kate’s hand is busy smoothing along notes of a glossy textbook with half-empty tea between them on the ever-tilting table of their local cafe, their hands will thoughtlessly intertwine on the latch-quilt black of their favorite meeting place. It’s warmer than the soft cotton of a beaten-up gray jacket and if Kate’s fingers thoughtlessly brush staccato violin brushes along her knuckles, Max never minds.

**They clasp, sometimes, like comrades at war, confident and unyielding and loyal.**

Kate usually keeps to herself in the courtyard, but after she’s back from the hospital she finds more and more people surrounding her like she’s a canary in a cage and Max always just grabs her hand and tugs her up from the bench and never lets go until they’re away from people and the world and the air that feels like it’s suffocating her. It’s better than being alone on the bench and their hands never part until _they_ do, into separate rooms and doors and, sometimes even then, Kate will trace the lifelines of her palm like a phantom limb until Max shuffles to her door and knocks and gives her back borrowed books and given smiles and stolen photos.

**They miss each other like long-lost friends, distance making the pulse grow fonder.**

Both of them usually curl into their sides when they sleep, knees tucking up to chests. Max’s arm pushes up in her arm like an antenna trying to find life in outer space and Kate’s hands curve underneath her ear like they’re praying. She lays down with tented hands and mussed buns and sleepy eyes and Max wants to run her finger down the length of her nose to see if there’s symmetry there. To see if Kate follows her finger with hooded eyes and parted lips before she settles in the sheets.

She doesn’t. She rests her hand above tossled strands of dusty blonde, instead, until Kate reaches out to her.

**They part, sometimes, like the seas of Moses.**

Kate reaches towards her until their fingers tent above faux-silk pillowcases mussed with lack of sleep and near-midnight delirious laughter. The world’s settled around them as fingers trace mountains up to peaks against camera-calloused fingers. Their palms don’t connect as the gaps of their fingers spread and Kate finds herself filling them like Israelites stumbling through the dusty chasm between two blue seas, undeniably changed. Moved.

Her fingers slide through--brush--pull back and tent before pushing through gasps to brush, again, and before Kate understands she shifts closer until their hands--and their legs--and the sheets--are tangled, nose barely brushing as they fall asleep.

**They join, sometimes, like two halves of a twining celtic circle, lines and shapes and colors and frame.**

“Kate?” Max asks, curious and a little breathless, her smile faltering like she’s a can of paint sitting on the edge of a desk, precariously tipped, and Kate’s hand is a hip that’s jostled into her corners. Like Kate’s fingers have shaken her whole world and she feels like she’s falling in slow motion like an 80′s action film, nothing but the ground beneath to catch her. 

The sun’s set and risen and set, again, probably, in the time they’ve spent laying here, morning dew settling on their shoulders like fresh air, and their noses still brush as she leans in further.

**Their lips might be better acquainted than they are.**


End file.
